


Warm.

by Lanna Michaels (lannamichaels)



Category: Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: April Showers Challenge 2011
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-04-02
Updated: 2003-04-02
Packaged: 2017-10-18 12:38:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/188970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lannamichaels/pseuds/Lanna%20Michaels
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It wasn't hot, or cold. It simply was.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Warm.

**Author's Note:**

> Lamath is to blame for the "straight man" thing.

  
He put the frozen macaroni into the microwave, didn't bother about the plastic until the microwave had counted down a minute. Stuck the sauce into crockery, lid firmly on, and replaced the pasta. Set it for two minutes. Moved a spoon around the macaroni, now clumped up and placed in one of his hand-painted bowls, Henry age five and wanting to be like his da. Took the sauce out when it popped at forty seconds remaining and stuck the bowled macaroni back in. Stirred the sauce, poking at the tomato clumps, took out the newspaper while the microwave counted down the seconds.

He didn't wait for it to beep, took it out instead with five seconds remaining on the clock. Jotted down some quick lines on his Mead pad, swiss army knife with the handy pen scritching from it's almost-lack of ink. Found himself rhyming 'catatonic' and 'embryonic' and threw down the pad, pen, and spoon. Caught the spoon midair, brilliant football catch if he did say so himself, but then remembered he was in New Zealand and football wasn't football, but it was still a good catch. Not goalie-material, but he'd served his time on the playing field just like every teenage boy trying to impress the chicks. Or the blokes, as Sean would say. Nice to be gay and a Brit, to be able to crush on 'blokes' rather than guys.

Pored the sauce over the lukewarm macaroni, still clumped somewhat together, but that didn't matter since it was late and would be an early morning and, besides, no one was watching. Tasted the concoction carefully and smiled. Wasn't hot, wasn't cold, it simply was. Warm like Sean, warm like a flannel blanket on a chilly night, warm like Goldilocks must've been before those bears intruded on her beauty sleep. Warm like a comforting hand on your shoulder in times of trouble, warm like it would settle quickly in your stomach, getting along well with all the coffee you chugged that morning like it was candy and it was Doomsday and you were swifting going to hell. Lucifer only gives candy to children, Vig reminded himself in a fit of poetrics that he pushed cleanly away. Painter, poet, thespian. Couldn't be all at once, and had to keep up the theatrics to get away with being with Sean without jumping him cleanly off the ground into a pleasant future, one with soft beds, gentle companionship, and warm dinners nightly settling in the stomach like semen on a lover's lips, like your taste down a friend's throat.

Vig knew that Sean was little more than a call away, little more than four sweet, soft-spoken words from knowing the truth, little more than a soliloquey written in the nights when Vig just couldn't find the sheep to count to his rest. And on New Zealand, lack of sheep was a serious issue.

Warm pasta sliding down his throat like he wished Sean's cock would, tangy sauce on his lips, licking it, wishing it was semen like wishing would make it be. Fellating the spoon, tongue darting over and under and around, making spirals around the base and long licks on the curve. Kissing the center of the bowl, breath making a swifty clearing cloud on his upside-down reflection, and wishing Sean was with him.

He was setting up the dishes to dry when there was a demanding knock at the door. Shouted that it was open, that he was home, that wasn't it a little late for script revisions, Peter? But Sean came in, bearing gifts of print-outs rather than scraps of scripts, and a shy frown rather than excited exuberated enthusiasm.

"Need yer help, mate."

"Always yours." Attmped to smile, succeeded. Thespian, then poet.

Sean thrust the papers at him and they crinkled like Ian's Gandalf eyebrows after a night of scolding various little ones. "Top of your head, tell me synonyms for 'actor'."

Poetry of thesbianism? Vig shrugged internally. It wasn't Sean's due to keep track of crazed Americans' thought processes. "Entertainer. Impersonator. Mimic. Performer. Star."

"Straight man."

Vig blinked, slowly. Wondered if Orli had spiked his sauce again. "Come again?"

"I was working on a...er..." Sean looked cute when flustered, Vig decided. "I was working on something," Sean said quickly. "Needed words for actor. The theasaurus gave me 'straight man'."

Dawning came slowly. "They mean in a comedy, Sean. You know, the man who stands there and takes all the abuse because he knows he'll get the loudest and longest applause when it's all over and done with."

Sean paused, then his face fell. "Oh. I'll...I'll just go then."

"Wait. Sean, what were you doing that you needed other words for actor?"

"Well, uh...umm....Iwaswritinganodetoyou," he mummbled all at once. The pasta sauce burped a resounding agreement in Vig's belly as he considered the words.

"You were..."

"Jesus, Vig." Then Sean was kissing him, nice, warm, and sweet, nothing like sauce and lukewarm macaroni, but somehow, just like home. Comforting weight in his arms and a grin against his mouth, and Vig decided to have late night dinners more often. Much more often.


End file.
